


slumming

by tablecloth



Category: Bully (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Pre-Relationship, if there is any relationship, uhh kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 13:09:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13388475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tablecloth/pseuds/tablecloth
Summary: spend time at a lower social level than one's own through curiosity or for charitable purposes





	slumming

**Author's Note:**

> pov is second person gord vendome

Something electric runs down your spine when you're around him and it is absolutely addicting. You imagine how angry your father would be if he knew--how his face would drop from shock to disgust to anger to confusion--and your stomach twists with excitement. At first, associating with the ruffian Hopkins boy was just minor entertainment. How the working class has such contrasting mannerisms and ideals from your own echelon was intriguing to say the least. But the way his brain works--Hopkins'--is something else entirely. You've speculated that this is perhaps due to his inherent confidence; he fears nothing, and that in itself is deliciously intoxicating. He does not fear the consequences of his actions, does not fear the possibility of having every bone in his body broken, does not even fear what people think of him--it boggles the mind.  
  
He had seen you walking one day, on the way back from one of his “tasks." He rode over to you on his skateboard, blood drying under his nose and a cloud of purple bruises beginning to form high on his left cheek. He grinned in response to however you must have looked and told you he had just gotten back from the Carnival (whatever that was supposed to mean). Some small conversation later and you both ended up in the beach clubhouse, you searching out a First-Aid kit from a cabinet in the bathroom. You told him you didn't quite know how to dress wounds, that in the few times you have gotten hurt you are always taken care of by a private nurse, but you insisted on cleaning him up anyway. You really didn't have much reason to, considering a majority of the time he was in this condition regardless, but seeing him roughed up the way he was--like a true product of the lower class--made your fingertips buzz with static exhilaration. You cleaned up his face and knuckles with sterile wipes (he winced and cursed and God what a foul mouth) and bandaged what open cuts you could. By the time you had finished, you were sitting cross-legged on a wooden chair beside the bed that Jimmy was lying on, his hands behind his head and his gaze on the ceiling. You could hear the muffled crash of water on water from outside the room and you instinctively checked your watch.

“Getting bored?”

The way Jimmy raised his eyebrows at you didn't carry the usual accusatory air you associated with questions of that nature, but you nonetheless scrambled for a response.

"What? No, of course not,” you weren't sure why you felt so obligated to justify yourself, “It is simply that the Harrington House has a set curfew and I wasn’t quite sure how long we have been here."

Jimmy sat up halfway, leaning his weight on his elbow. “And you can’t just blow them off or anything?” He seemed to gather the answer from your expression and changed course. “Why do you revolve your life around that whole pack of uppity bastards anyway?”

You felt nearly scandalized hearing him insult your chums (and by design, the  _ Harringtons _ ), but something about it just felt right coming off of his tongue. You crossed your arms and looked at the floorboards as you thought. “I can’t just... make choices of my own,” you settled with, the most obvious thing in the world. You looked back to Jimmy. “Not everyone is born a free-roaming mongrel. For good breeding to be effective, Hopkins, every part of the system has to cooperate,” you gesticulated accordingly. “If that means I’m at the Harrington House by nine-thirty, then by God I’m at the Harrington House by nine-thirty. To fail the Harringtons is to fail Daddy, and to fail Daddy is... well, to fail, full stop. But of course I don't expect you to know this, given your common upbringing.”

He squinted his eyes at you a little before pushing himself up with a huff, legs bent in front of him. “Come over here,” he said, nodding to the space in front of him on the bed. You didn’t know if he intended to hurt you or if he had something else in mind; your relationship was fickle in that respect but you supposed that was the charm of it.

You stood up and made your way over. “If you so much as scratch me, your parents will have a very unpleasant lawsuit coming to them,” you warned, but just the idea of him laying a hand on you was rousing that feeling down your spine again, a feather against skin. At this point maybe you just needed to visit a counselor and have this sorted out.

You sat in front of him, criss-crossing your legs and straightening your back in order to juxtapose his slouch. The purple of his cheek had only darkened since he’d first gotten it and it was beginning to become a sort of distraction. You pulled your gaze back to level with his and raised an eyebrow. “Well, Hopkins? What is it? Was there something wrong with my previous seating arrangement?”

“Yeah, kind of,” he laughed and shifted his weight up and forward, closing you in with folded legs and placing his hands flat on your thighs. You glanced down at this new development and then back to his eyes and then to the bruise and then to his hands and then to his eyes again but at that point they were closed and his lips were meeting yours. You responded with a surprised kiss of your own before he pulled back only the slightest bit. He opened his eyes and they crinkled with a grin. “Personally,” he began, “I think you should do whatever you want, and that the Harringtons can go fuck themselves.” 

He exhaled another laugh and kissed you again. The absolutely ludicrous part, the sure wonder, is that you--without a doubt--consented to this. You encouraged it, in fact. You rearranged yourself in order to better suit Jimmy, tucking your legs under yourself as you snaked one hand to his shoulder and the other to his chest (which reminded you acutely of the  _ brute _ with whom you were making these relations). You applied a force to the kiss that he had relented from (and what a sentimentalist Jimmy was, giving  _ you _ the decision of whether to go forth with this; and go forth with it you did). You let him suck on your neck (there would be evidence, someone would see,  _ Derby _ would see, Daddy would  _ hear _ ), then bit his lip in return (Jimmy grabbed your hips then and it terrified you in the best way but then he just kissed you harder and never in your life had you been so stimulated, in all senses of the word). 

A satisfied sound of approval rose from the back of Jimmy's throat and it was like the annual firework display at Father's lake surging throughout your entire system, burning and popping and crackling and bursting and you would be lying if you said Jimmy Hopkins didn't make you feel alive.

**Author's Note:**

> ok i found this in my docs from ~3 years ago and decided 2 just edit & post it even though i haven't touched bully in that same amount of time lmao
> 
> hope you can forgive my hellish 2nd person pov that i loved using in 2015
> 
> anyway here's to jimmy/gord


End file.
